


Downfall

by darkling59



Series: Annals of the Incomplete [50]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3550970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkling59/pseuds/darkling59
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes a vital mistake while investigating a company conducting illegal genetic experiments. Fortunately, his captors have no desire to kill him. Unfortunately, they want him for something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

2 Years ago…

It had been a minor case, really, just a distraction to keep his mind off the lure of drugs. A puzzle: Why would someone steal such an odd combination of drugs, and how had they managed to steal from 59 different retailers all across the country? Most of the thefts had been of such low doses that the retailers hadn’t realized they were missing until he pointed it out. Sherlock hadn’t expected the missing pharmaceuticals to lead him to a smuggling scheme and the commercial front for an international criminal organization. As it turned out, the drugs were being shipped to some covert little laboratory in the middle of nowhere ( _cold_ nowhere) an hour from Aberdeen.

Cocky from his success so far and loathe to give up the chase, Sherlock had sneaked and bluffed his way into the lab and struck gold. Illegal genetic experimentation was their main goal, with some organ harvesting and hormonal manipulation on the side, using mainly kidnap victims as human test subjects. There was only one experiment he couldn’t seem to figure out, something so secret that even the name was buried beneath cyphers and firewalls…and silent alarms.

Sherlock didn’t even realize he was caught until the sharp sting of a tranquilizer dart chased him into unconsciousness.

* * *

He awoke to find himself alone, still sprawled on the floor where he’d fallen. His mouth was dry and tasted like cotton while his mind was disoriented. Did he have a concussion? Most worrying was the fact that he couldn’t move, not even to wiggle a finger or flicker an eyelid. Tightening the muscles in his neck to swallow was the most he could do, and even that was a monumental effort.

Sherlock was totally helpless; awake and aware but unable to defend himself.

A coil of fear uncurled in his stomach.

The sound of hard footsteps ( _Non-military issue combat boots/steel-tipped/relatively new/well-used_ ) alerted him to a new arrival ( _Ex-military/6.2’-6.4’/21.5-22 stone/late 50s-60s/guard/likely terrorist)_. Sherlock tried to move; he _strained_ (which was certainly not a Holmes-ian thing to do).

“You little git.” The guard growled from directly overhead. _(old throat injury/smoker-10 years/angry but under control)_ He prodded the prone detective with one metal toe. “How’d you get in here, anyway?”

Sherlock couldn’t answer despite his desire to do so. He would have enjoyed lashing out at his captor, even verbally. Not that it would have done much good…the guard was many stones heavier and several inches taller. The world’s only consulting detective was well and truly caught.

“Boss! Boss!” A new set of footsteps, louder and less precise ( _steel toed boots/new/little used)_ , echoed from the hallway and stopped abruptly at the door. “Boss, we found…oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Sherlock’s guard growled _(confident/authority/leader(?))._ “Care to tell me how **this** ,” he kicked Sherlock roughly with one foot, inadvertently rolling him onto his back, “Got past our security?”

Sherlock pushed away the instinctual panic of being in an even more vulnerable position with his throat and chest exposed. He needed to focus on the conversation, glean as much knowledge as he could. Knowledge is power, after all. Unfortunately, the exchange quickly became the dissatisfied boss/scraping underling routine present in all professions _(dull)_ and Sherlock lost interest. The underling was similarly dull _(late 20’s/6-6’1/clumsy/new/easily intimidated)_ but he would be a good candidate for bribery or coercion if the chance appeared. Trying to open his eyes was a much worthier cause.

“Now, boys.” All three men froze at the low, amused voice from the doorway _(quiet/male/30s-40s/wealthy/in charge(?)/powerful)._ “What’s this I hear about an intruder?”

“Yes, sir.” The older guard must have done something to dismiss the younger, who left. Then he led the newcomer over to Sherlock. “We’re still figuring out how he got in but the safeties on the alpha data held and the secondary security measures kicked in before he could escape. The new formula worked like a charm; he was out like a light in seconds.”

“Hm. He must be rather intelligent to have gotten this far.” Sherlock would have _truly_ liked to scoff at that. _Rather_. He made note of the term ‘alpha data’ to investigate later.

The guard grunted irritably. “The tricky ones always are. I was about to call in a disposal team; do you need the body for anything?”

_(scientist or doctor/intelligent/…/…)…body?!_

He jerked reflexively, panicked, at the realization of his fears. It was logical, of course, that they would kill him. He knew too much. But he couldn’t…! He wasn’t…! He was Sherlock Holmes, he had to find a way out; he couldn’t just lie here and let them kill him! Not before proving to Mycroft that he COULD succeed, at least. But he couldn’t move-he didn’t have a choice. This wasn’t supposed to _happen_!

Lost in his panic and forced immobility, he didn’t notice when his fingers jerked in response to his terror.

His captors did.

“Hmm.” A light touch to his forehead snapped Sherlock back into the moment. Panicking wouldn’t help anything. He needed to remain calm and wait for his chance.

The fingers on his forehead ( _no calluses/ no field work/delegates menial labor/sure touch/doctor)_ moved to his neck, checking his pulse. The man went on to give him a very cursory examination; checking his hands (reflexes slowly returning), the insides of his elbows (track marks not quite faded), and his mouth. Having his head tilted back and his mouth and teeth inspected was a surreal sensation and Sherlock couldn’t help but speculate as to what use it could possibly be. Was the doctor just checking the potential product, trying to figure out if his organs were good enough to harvest?

The thought made something twist in his gut and forced a reflexive swallow.

“Hmm!” The scientist murmured again, obviously more interested. “Do you have a light?”

“Er. Sure.” The guard must have passed it over. A moment later, Sherlock’s right eyelid was forced open by the other man’s fingers _(rougher touch than expected/out of practice)_ and a bright light shone into it. A low groan was the only protest he could give, but it was surprisingly effective. The light was removed and his eye closed.

“He’s _awake?_ ”

“Yes.” The scientist sounded oddly satisfied. This did not bode well. “One side effect of the new serum is temporary paralysis. Unconsciousness only persists for the first 1-5 minutes. Full paralysis should last for half an hour or so, but it will be another 12 to 24 hours before he regains full motor control. Our…friend…here is recovering faster than expected.”

“Oh. You’re…keeping him, then?”

Sherlock went rigid, wary at what could cause nervousness in the tone of the cold-blooded man who had barely flinched at ordering his death.

The scientist’s chuckle was downright _sinister_. “Yes, I think he’ll be a wonderful addition to Project Alpha. If he survives the modifications, of course.”

Oh. NO. Not good. This was _Very Not Good._

A condescending hand raked through his hair, stopping at the nape of his neck to rub something cold on his skin (alcohol swab?), preparing for an injection.

Sherlock felt his heart rate increase as he tried desperately to move, struggle, flee, _something._

He barely felt the injection as his already dark world slid away, enclosing him further in suffocating blackness.

It would be three months before he regained full lucidity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes his appearance

_1 year later..._

* * *

 

"Well, that was unexpected."

John crouched in the corner of the small room –cage? Cage.- and observed his surroundings warily. For now, he was willing to remain calm, at least until he understood the situation. Hopefully, this was all just a big misunderstanding and he could explain to the scientists that, no, he _wasn’t_ one of their subjects and it would be in their best interests to let him go. Unfortunately, the missing chunks of his memory, hospital-type clothing, and (most importantly) the locked and barcoded metal anklet he’d woken up wearing gave him the sinking feeling that maybe he WAS their specimen.

The anklet was a ring of stainless steel 2 cm wide, marked on one side by a long black barcode and, on the other by two small lines of text reading:  
               P: O-16  
               S: b-021-JHW

There were no seams, hinges, or any other apparent way to get it on or off.

He was familiar enough with laboratory procedures to recognize a specimen tag.

* * *

There was a familiar tall, dark-haired man pacing on the other side of one of the transparent walls that bordered the cage, gaze riveted on John. When he realized John’s attention was on him, he stopped and straightened to his full height, eyes never wavering from their fixation on the smaller man.

“John.” His voice was a deep growl, dark with promise and John shivered in response, returning the look carefully, mindful of the dominance in the other man’s gesture and hoping to avoid a fight. Also, mindful of the matching cages (although it looked like Sherlock was exempt from the anklet).

“Sherlock?” John stood slowly, straightening to feel less overshadowed. Unfortunately, he was still a head too short - at least he wouldn't be considered a threat while Sherlock was in this...mood. “Do you know what’s happening?”

Sherlock blinked and leaned forward, staring down and breathing in deeply, scenting the air coming from John’s cage. The smaller man stood his ground; for all that the situation was unfamiliar, he had faced much scarier people in Afghanistan. Without a barrier in the way.

“You smell…different.” He murmured, lips skinning back off his teeth in an expression somewhere between a smile and a sneer.

Nonplussed, John just stared. “Um. Thanks?”

THAT seemed to shock the other man out of…whatever he was in. Sherlock jerked back as if struck, looking at him with wide eyes for a moment as his mind seemed to catch up with his actions. John watched with interest as his expression closed off and he whirled away, throwing himself on the narrow bed in his cell with as much drama as he could.

The tension humming in the air relaxed abruptly.


End file.
